The Scoundrel
by dandroid.exe
Summary: Ludwig Beilschmidt is a famous smuggler with good intentions. One day, things get out of hand, and a bounty hunter has Ludwig's head in his sights, trapping Ludwig on Nar Shadaa. Feliciano, an understanding bartender, offers Ludwig a place to stay. For now. (Based slightly on Germany and Italy's 2P characters)


They say that in the city you're never more than six feet away from a rat. Whether they're referring to people like me or the Hutts and their rats, I can't blame 'em. Whoever this 'they' person is.

Because of this fact, I realize that I can't afford to make or keep friends. Anyone can be a snitch, if you give them someone to snitch on. I don't need others, anyway. You have to pick and choose your priorities, and right now, two things occupy my interest:

1\. Money

2\. Not Dying.

Not that I have any goals. Whenever I get number one, I spend it all on number two before I can even reach a cantina. That's just the way it is for people like me. I'll be stuck in this vicious cycle until the day I get caught.

I should probably give a bit of an introduction. It changes depending on who you ask, but my real name is Ludwig Beilschmidt. I spent my early childhood living off the land in the Germanican region of my homeworld, Alderaan. A lot of Hutts and salesmen (and girls) have my head for sale. I have a natural tendency to take things and never keep my end of a deal. Kind of like a kleptomaniac. Yeah. You probably know my face from the 'WANTED' posters across the galaxy. Luckily, all of them have different names on them. Also, they never get my nose right.

Basically, I'm this street-rat, a thieving freeloader who takes from the rich and keeps it for himself. A scoundrel.

But don't think I'm this charming, smooth-talker ruffian, because I'm really a man of few words. This is just my inner dialogue. I'm actually a man of few words. I imagine myself to be cooler than I really am. I've found that I don't really _need_ to do much talking. I usually just look at people and I end up with their money. It's not my fault, I swear. I just have good _and_ bad luck.

Recently, in this fabulous life of odd-jobs and running from Hutts (who are surprisingly difficult to run from, in the grand scheme of things), I may have gone too far. But what I did isn't important. What's important is that I know there's a bounty hunter after me. He's known as Hitman Jones, and from what I've heard, he's absolutely nuts about killing anyone whom he's told is the 'bad guy'. In this case, my ex-buddy Neboota the Hutt has sicked him right on my ass. They're tracking the ship landings and departures on Nar Shadaa, so I can't leave the planet. I just need to keep moving like I always do.

I walk through the alleys, with flashing signs on various clubs and cantinas begging for my attention, but they're not my type of place. I like a cantina in which I can hear myself think. I keep walking, trying not to look like a wanted criminal, (which is difficult for me, as a 6 foot tall wall of muscle) when I see an innocent-looking, quiet cantina with a non-seizure inducing sign that read 'The Pasta Pub'. I walked in without thinking. My stomach was growling. If this place doesn't actually sell pasta, I will go berserk. The place is mostly empty, save for a few fellow shady characters. There aren't any dancers, which I definitely don't mind. I always feel like they're judging me. There is a bartender, who's falling asleep. He's a young human with reddish hair that curls strangely on the left. I sit down at the bar in front of him.

"Hey." I say to him.

His head snaps up so fast I'm surprised he didn't hurt himself. He sees me and smiles sweetly. He certainly isn't like any other bartender I've ever met. Most see me walk in and look at me in horror, shouting, "Take the money! It's yours, take it!" But not this guy.

"You look kinda stressed. Let me guess, you want me to do the thing."

"What?"

What thing? Is he a prostitute? What sort of place is this?! Well, that's the planet of Nar Shadaa for you...

"This."

He begins to dramatically wipe the counter with a dish towel for a few seconds, and without looking up, asks me, "Rough day?"

He starts to laugh, and I laugh with him. How stereotypical! Now that I think about it, a laugh is exactly what I needed.

"Okay, yeah. That was pretty good. And yes, it's been a rough week for me. I'd like a beer, please."

"One beer, coming right up!"

Why am I being so polite? Something about this guy makes me wanna say 'please', instead of barking orders, using my natural intimidation like I usually do.

He puts the beer in front of me, and I ask him, "Do you actually serve pasta, or is that an alliteration used to attract customers?"

I haven't eaten in a day and a half, but I don't tell him.

"Of course we do! Would you like some?" He replies.

I want to cry manly tears of joy and hunger, but I stay calm.

"Yes please, that'd be great."

He smiles, turns to the door, and yells, "LOVINO! PASTA!" I hear a man's voice with an accent similar to the bartender's grumble, "I hear you, Feli, godddamn."

While whom I can assume is Lovino cooks the food, the bartender starts talking about this and that. He's a natural at small talk, a talent I wish I'd been born with. You'd think a scoundrel like me'd be sort of a smooth-talker, but I'm awful unless someone does all the talking for me. I don't need small talk usually, though, because I usually just glance at someone and they start blabbering like idiots and I end up with their money somehow in the end. Sometimes, however, I wish I could have a normal conversation for once. Like with this guy. He introduces himself to me as Feliciano Vargas. Lovino, who cooks, is his brother. This was their grandpa's bar, and they inherited it when he passed away a few years ago.

"I know a lot of our customers don't like to share this, but you're the least shady person we've had here in two years, so I'll ask. What's your name?"

Shit, what name do I say?! Every single one of my aliases are on signs posted all over this armpit of a planet. I'm left with only one other name:

"I'm Ludwig. It's nice to meet you, Feliciano. This is a very nice place you have."

"It's nice to meet you too, Ludwig! Are you from around here? You seem foreign. What brings you to Nar Shadaa?"

How do I respond to that? 'I'm a wanted criminal trying to temporarily hide from my inevitable capture, torture, and death'? No, I can't say that. So I say something even worse.

"Just traveling on my own. Sightseeing while I'm still young. Ya know."

He looks at me for a second, and smirks. His voice gets a bit deeper. "So what you're really saying is that you're a wanted criminal trying to temporarily hide from your inevitable capture, torture, and death."

I stare at him in shock. I always thought I was a pretty good liar. I guess I thought wrong. And now this is how I'll get caught and tortured and killed.

"B-B-But how", I stutter, my mouth stuck. My stomach is queasy, and I think I might throw up. I wasn't afraid of death until it happened to me. But I guess that's how most people are. "How did you know?"

He was still smiling calmly. " You're not the first one I've met. I know how it is." He paused for a moment, and went back to smiling just as he did before. "Do you need a place to stay?"

Did I just hear him right?

He must be crazy.

"Erm, well, yeah, but I'll be okay. I'll leave after I eat and drink."

He looked me in the eyes and got serious again.

"You can stay here... If you tell me your story. The real one."

Scheiße.


End file.
